Stop Trying to Make Fetch Happen
by BrioScotty
Summary: Prequel to Nobody Wants to Read a Story About Two Lesbian Princesses. Rachel's belated birthday present.


**A/N:** I asked Iris for something to write and ended up with this. Serves as a prequel to **Nobody Wants to Read a Story About Two Lesbian Princesses.**

**A/N2: **This is the first thing I've finished in a very long time. Sorry for my absence.

* * *

Draining the last of your orange juice, you eye the calendar pinned on the wall next to the fridge. Two words are written in her handwriting, giant letters that spill over into the neighbouring boxes for yesterday and tomorrow, and an unnecessary amount of exclamation mark. It makes you smile before you turn away to rinse the glass and place it in the dishwasher.

Footsteps pound down the staircase and your wife bursts into the kitchen, making a beeline for the mug of coffee sitting on the counter. You're not convinced that she actually needs it; she's been bouncing off the walls since the alarm clock had woken you both a couple of hours ago.

Even after six years together, you still marvel at her energy in the morning regardless of how late she gets to bed after a show or whatever event her management has you both attending. You've never been a morning person but today you're making an exception. After all, things are about to change and lie-ins are going to be less of a possibility.

"We should stop at the store on the way home," you say, taking a quick peek in the fridge. "I'm making your dad's favourite for dessert tonight."

"Such a good daughter-in-law," she grins as she finishes her coffee.

"He keeps telling me I'm his favourite one," you reply, adding a couple of things to the shopping list on the refrigerator door.

"Much better than my other wife, that's for sure," she winks, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind and pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "We should go."

"Excited?" you ask, breaking out of her hold to reach for your car keys.

"Nervous, excited, a little scared," she admits with a shrug. You grab her hand as she heads for the door.

"We're ready, Rach," you reassure her, squeezing her hand. "I promise you we're ready."

She's a little quiet during the hour-long journey but when you pull into the driveway of a sprawling farmhouse, she perks up. You pull to a stop next to a couple of other cars and reach over to take her hand.

"This is it," you say. "We're a little early but we could just head in. It looks like there are some other people here anyway."

Rachel bounces out of the car and waits for you to join her.

"It's a beautiful house," she notes as you both climb the steps to the front door. She presses the doorbell and takes your hand as you wait for someone to answer.

A minute or so later, the door swings open and you're greeted by an older woman who gestures for you to come inside.

"You must be Quinn," she says, shaking your hand. "I'm Jo. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You too," you reply. "This is my wife, Rachel."

"Rachel," Jo says, taking her hand with a curious look before blushing slightly. "I feel like I've met you before."

"I just have one of those faces," Rachel laughs easily and you send her a smirk. You're pretty sure that Jo isn't convinced but she leads you through to the back of the house without any further questions. The porch opens up into a huge backyard, around half of which is fenced off.

"Let's take a seat for a minute before we go any further," Jo suggests, gesturing towards a few seats towards the end of the porch. "I know Charles was pleased with his visit to your home last month but I like to get to know all of our prospective parents a little better."

No objections are raised to this and you watch Rachel relax a little more as she and Jo talk about how lovely the house is, how old it is, how large the grounds are and how long the latter has lived here. You let your attention wander slightly. Since buying your first house together, Rachel has become fanatical with real estate to the point where she's talked about taking time off from work to flip a couple of properties.

Not that she will, not yet. Her career is flourishing, her latest role on Broadway will be coming to a close in three months and she's moving straight on to a brand new project, something that will mean a little more time at home which is definitely something you're looking forward to.

"Quinn?" Rachel places a hand on your arm and you start. "Jo was asking about your work."

"Oh, sorry," you blush. "I tend to zone out when Rachel gets started on houses." Rachel rolls her eyes.

"I was wondering if you can reveal anything about the next instalment," Jo grins. "My niece and nephew are absolutely obsessed with the first book. The last time they came to visit, I'm pretty sure I never saw my niece's copy leave her hand the entire time."

You duck your head bashfully and shake your head.

"You can tell them that there's a new character in the next book and that person is my favourite to write about," you say. "But that's all I can say."

"Everything is kept under lock and key and password and whatever else she can put it under," Rachel smiles.

"Understandable," Jo nods, glancing down towards the fenced off part of the yard. "I think that's all I really need to ask. On paper, you two are exactly what we're looking for and I can usually tell within minutes if you're the right sort of people… I guess we should go meet the dogs."

Rachel gives an excited yelp and all but trips in her haste to follow Jo off the back porch. You follow after them, laughing in response to Rachel's scowl in your direction. Through the gate, Charles, Jo's husband, and another family are on their way out, a young Golden Retriever puppy in their arms.

"So gorgeous," Rachel squeals after they've passed.

"We have two puppies left from our most recent litter," Jo says. "We also have fifteen rescue dogs currently in our care."

You gaze down at the enclosure where two more Golden Retrievers are play-fighting with each other, fond memories of your childhood pet flooding your consciousness. You reach down to separate the dogs and pick one up, grinning when he starts to lick your hand.

"Rach…" you glance around but your wife has disappeared.

"Quinn, over here!" Rachel answers, her voice coming from across the yard between two rows of enclosures. You put the pup down and head over, almost positive about what's going to happen next.

She's kneeling in front of one of the smaller enclosures, fingers splayed against the door, cooing at the dog inside.

"He was brought to us a month ago," Jo is saying. "He isn't chipped and he didn't have any sort of identification but we're guessing that he's about a year old. He was underweight and malnourished when we got him but he's got his appetite back now." Jo glances over at you. "I know you were interested in a puppy…"

"Whatever Rachel wants," you say, kneeling down next to your wife. "Your birthday present, your decision."

"You have other people interested in the puppies, right?" Rachel asks, a frown crossing her face.

"There's a waiting list," Jo says. "We'll definitely find them a good home. Some of our rescue dogs have been waiting for homes much longer than this guy; there are some families who aren't willing to take on an older dog." Jo says, matter-of-factly but with an air of sadness that tugs at your heartstrings. She clears her throat and brightens. "How about I let you get acquainted with him? He's a little timid at first so give him a few minutes to come around." Jo unhooks the latch and leaves the door open.

As soon as Jo is out of earshot, Rachel turns to look at you, eyes full of tears. You wonder if you'll be coerced into getting more than one dog.

"All these poor dogs," she says and you grimace before glancing back into the enclosure.

"Rach, we can't take all the dogs home," you say firmly before raising your hand to the yellow Labrador who is eyeing you warily. "Here, boy." You give a low whistle and he looks a little more interested.

"I know we can't take them _all_…" Rachel says mournfully.

"Rach," you say quietly. "I'm pretty sure the birthday card said 'a dog'."

Silently, the Labrador has padded over to where you're both kneeling and sniffs at Rachel, tail starting to wag.

"He likes you," you smile, reaching out to pet him as he nuzzles his nose against Rachel's arm.

"Must be my animal magnetism," Rachel bites down on her lip to stop the laugh threatening to burst out of her mouth. "He's gorgeous, isn't he?" Rachel starts to scratch behind his ears and he presses himself closer. "Let's see if he likes to play." She grabs the chew toy and a ball from the ground and coaxes him outside. "Fetch, boy!"

She tosses the ball and he stares after it, head cocked to the side.

"I guess that's the first thing we can teach him," you say, nudging Rachel's arm before trotting off to get the ball. "And we really need to come up with a name…"

"I already have a name," Rachel says nonchalantly, wagging the chew toy in front of the dog's face. He looks up at Rachel before sitting down and cocking his head to the other side. "We should find Jo and arrange getting this guy home."

"You sure?" you ask. "We can think about it some more if you want."

"We've been thinking about it for almost a year," she replies. "He's the one for us."

"Great!" you exclaim and press a kiss against her lips. Your wife isn't known for her decisiveness so that she's found the dog she wants _and_ has a name picked out is something akin to a miracle. "I'll go find Jo." With a triumphant grin, you head off towards the house, glancing over your shoulder to find Rachel kneeling beside the dog once more, trying to tempt him with the chew toy again. He licks her face instead causing your wife to giggle.

After you've ironed out the details with Jo, you leave the farmhouse armed with a list of things to get before you take the dog home at the weekend. You're halfway home before you remember to ask what Rachel's picked out as a name. With perfect pitch and enough volume that the driver of the neighbouring car turns to look at you in astonishment as you swerve in surprise, she answers in song.

"Fiyero!"


End file.
